By Oath or Darkness
by Chasing Silmarils
Summary: "Our fathers have both burned, whether by choice or cruel fate, and we are both bound to darkness in our own way. But I was saved, and perhaps you will be saved also." Under the cold hand of the Black Breath, Faramir dreams of a mountain, an impossible bond, a savior, and someone from the dark past of Middle-earth.


**This is just a random idea I had. I h****ope you enjoy the oneshot!**

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**By Oath or Darkness**

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_Father._

It was the last word that Faramir remembered saying, and it haunted his fevered mind. It seemed as if the world was set aflame, evil fires burning inside of him, dark hisses of an unknown speech invading his rest. There was no hope in this wretched place. Screams echoed in his ears- or perhaps he was only imagining them. Perhaps _he_ was the one screaming, but he felt too weary to even whisper.

But suddenly, the fires gave way to a fierce, cold wind. An acrid stench was drawn into Faramir's lungs, and he choked. Shivers wracked his body, and his sword arm ached horribly. Struggling, he opened his eyes, only to receive the worst shock of his life.

He was on a mountain, of all places: a high, dark mountain of slag. He was not in the White Mountains that he had known, and Minas Tirith was nowhere in sight. After that had registered, he had looked up towards his right hand, wondering why it throbbed. A disbelieving moan escaped him. "No," he whispered, but his voice was lost in the cruel wind. His right wrist was attached by a strong device to the mountain. His legs swung uselessly in the air below as he struggled, but he could not free himself.

"You cannot break it," a voice said through the black fog.

Faramir involuntarily flinched, then winced at the pain that the movement had sent through his body. He looked around, and nearby on the mountain stood a someone who he could not see properly through the darkness. The being did not look to be a foul creature, but one could never be too cautious of late. Struggling to word his questions, Faramir coughed. "Who... how... where...?" he managed, then again hung limp and lifeless from the mountain.

"I will attempt to answer you," the voice said. "As to where you are, you are at Thangorodrim, high above the fortress of Angband. As to who I am, I shall not yet reveal my name. And for how you have reached this place..." He paused, appearing to ponder the situation. "I suppose it is some sort of dark dream," he decided. "For that is what I wished to believe during my time here."

After a moment of thought, Faramir deemed thinking to be far too painful. He could not find the will to do much of anything. But he twisted his head to stare again at the mysterious figure. "Then- then a better question would be _why_ I am here," he said, his voice hoarse.

The figure shrugged, using his shoulders and hands. Or rather, his _hand._ Faramir noticed with a swoop of his stomach that the person had only a left hand. "Perhaps it is the similarities of our situations," he said, "though I do not know for certain. Our fathers have both burned, whether by choice or cruel fate, and we are both bound to darkness in our own way. But I was saved, and perhaps you will be saved also." There was a cold, humorless laugh. "However, _I_ have truly suffered the tortures of this event, whereas to you, this may only be an evil vision. For who could know, besides the creators of our torments?"

It took a moment for Faramir's agonized mind to mull over the words that had just been spoken. "My father..." he began, then stopped. He had been about to protest that of course Denethor had not burned, and likely never would. And 'choice or cruel fate'... that only appeared all the more sinister. And suddenly, he understood something. Perhaps this strange wraith was right, and his father was dead. "I beg of you not to speak of my father," he said instead, then attempted to change the topic. "You say that you have suffered this and have been saved. Do you believe that I too will be saved?"

With another mirthless laugh, the voice's owner held up his remaining hand for silence. "You ask many questions of me, but I cannot answer with certainty," he said. "For to you, as I have said, this is a dream, no matter how much pain you feel. You live within an old torture, and if these events repeat, then yes, I believe you will be saved." There was a pause. "But perhaps you will not wake, and you will be beyond any healing. It is not in my power to know."

The figure stepped closer, and Faramir saw a glimpse of bright eyes, and a proud Elven face, fair and strong. Then the Elf cocked his head to one side. "I hear calls from afar," he said. "'Faramir'. That is your name, is it not?" Faramir nodded, thoroughly puzzled, but with hope growing in his heart. "Ah. Then you will have a savoir as I did, though I was called with a fair song of Valinor; he will be one who has set out to end your torment and bring peace..."

He sighed. "For you are not in a time of peace, I would say by your condition. Or could it be that your people are not at peace with one another? I endured... much, for of that reason." His voice lowered. "And I caused much pain: pain that would consume you like a black sickness. For you do not desire killing for death's sake."

Faramir could not speak. No words would suffice. The speaker continued. "Nor would you bind yourself to something impossible. I was bound; bound just as you are, on this very mountain!" His voice grew louder, and Faramir suddenly feared the fell spirit of this Elf. "But the iron was not the worst of what bound me." His gaze seemed to pierce through the fog and into Faramir's very soul. "I warn you: swear never an oath that will bring naught but pain in the end. Loyalty, faith, devotion- they mean only agony when the time has come."

Again, Faramir felt unable to answer. But then, out of the dark smoke, he heard a voice calling out his name. And in the dark mountains, he thought he smelled a vaguely familiar scent: athelas. He breathed it in and smiled. "I will be saved, as you said," he told the Elf. "I thank you." But even as he said this, and another person appeared, his heart was heavy. The band around his wrist seemed unbreakable, and he feared that escape would be impossible. The Elf faded back into the darkness as the other person emerged.

"Faramir!" the Man said, reaching in vain for the Steward's bewildered son. The newcomer had a Numenorean look to him, and a noble face. Somehow, in the peculiar nightmare-land, Faramir knew that he looked upon his King. But Faramir remained silent in his distress, relaxing his tensed muscles and letting his body swing in the wind.

"You cannot help me," he called out, his voice choked with despair. "Leave me, if you wish for me to die a slow death." At these words, the Elf stepped again toward him -yet not too near to the Man- and raised his bowed head. There was a knowing look in his eyes as Faramir spoke. "If you have any mercy for me, you would slay me quickly with your blade."

But the Man shook his head. "No, I cannot," he insisted, "unless it is the last option. I must bring you out of the shadow." Although the Man did not appear to notice his other companion at all, the Elf raised his eyebrows, as if something had gone differently than expected. But as the minutes passed, with Faramir wordlessly hanging from the mountainside and the Man refusing to kill him, the situation appeared all the more grim.

"You must," Faramir begged, the wind blowing his dark hair into his eyes. He shuddered at the touch of the cold air and looked up at the Man. "If your arm reaches far enough toward me, you must kill me."

At this, the Man nodded, and the Elf unexpectedly looked off into the distance. Faramir would have followed his gaze, but he instead waited for the merciful touch of the blade on his skin. Then he heard a loud cry, though it was of a bird rather than of a person. With a painful twist of his neck, he saw a huge eagle, flying near to the mountain.

"Ah," whispered the Elf, although the Man did not appear to hear him at all. "You are a descendant of Thorondor, I presume," he said to the eagle.

"Yes," the eagle said. "I am Gwaihir the Windlord." The eagle faced the Man. "And I would gladly bear you, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and your companion."

The name sounded familiar to Faramir; he seemed to recall it from a recent day in Ithilien, in the company of the halflings. But he did not ponder this any longer as the Man was borne to him by Gwaihir. Aragorn son of Arathorn's mighty blade, though it did not break or become notched, could not break the band of iron around Faramir's right wrist. The Elf, who still stood on the dark mountain, bowed his head once again.

"Please," pleaded Faramir. Tears made his vision waver as the pain took hold of his body. "You must slay me. Your sword is within reach of my heart, and you are able. Please."

Aragorn's face was unyielding of emotion, and he looked extremely reluctant. Faramir knew that he was helpless. His fate was in the hands of this man, and in those anxious moments of waiting, the shadow over his heart seemed to be winning a long-fought battle. His sorrowful tears were cold on his face, and his sobs ricocheted off the mountains. "Please," he repeated. "Kill me."

With a look of resigned determination, Aragorn raised his blade. Faramir let out a sigh of relief, already welcoming death, when the sword flew through the air and cut deeply into his right wrist, letting him fall and leaving his hand behind.

Faramir's cry of pain echoed like a thunderclap through the heights of Thangorodrim. The pain was too terrible to describe, and in his shock he barely noticed the Elf's outstretched hand. The darkness seemed to be fading away as his pain heightened, and his left hand grasped the left hand of the Elf, who hauled him to safety on the mountain. As Faramir's blood poured out onto the slag, he stared up into a pair of sad, knowing eyes.

"It is but a dream," the Elf said softly, though without any illusion of tenderness. "You will heal, Faramir. Your blood is spilled for our sake."

But Faramir could not stand the rush of pain, even if it was only a dream. "Who are you?" he sobbed out, holding his right wrist to his stomach to staunch the flow of blood.

The Elf knelt and pulled Faramir's right arm towards himself. As the blood flowed onto both of them, he looked back at Faramir, who had almost fainted from the shock and agony.

"I am Maedhros, son of Feanor," he said, and everything faded until the scent of athelas replaced the scent of Faramir's blood.


End file.
